it takes a bit more
by starsbind
Summary: They don't talk about it, really. Luke/Nick.


Nick isn't sure how this started.

Actually, that's a lie. He remembers it pretty well. He doesn't like to think about it, though, so he tells himself he doesn't remember. Nothing had happened before all the walkers and everything went to shit, not really — sometimes they'd gotten drunk and woken up tangled together asleep on a couch or a bed or the floor, neither with much memory of how they'd gotten there, but that was pretty much it. That, too, was something they never really talked about.

Just like this is. They don't really talk until after, and even then it's about everything _but_ what just happened. The first time was shortly after the entire fucking mess with the bite and his mom. He'd been on the edge and Luke had brought him back, climbing into his bed and fitting himself against Nick's back, sliding his hand to his stomach and lower.

Luke always was the leader of the two. Nick followed him, that was how things were. So he'd followed, and for a few minutes felt a little better. He didn't like to think about the _after_, the weird twist in his gut whenever he looked at Luke, whenever Luke looked at him like nothing had happened. Nick couldn't help but feel like he should say something, call him out, but it sounded like so much trouble for nothing.

This time they only have a few minutes. Everyone's packing up to leave after Carver's little visit, and who knows when this'll get to happen again. Nick just needs to feel _something_. After losing Pete when he hadn't had time to properly grieve his mother yet, nothing really seems worth the effort, and although he knows it isn't fair of him to put this on Luke, he knocks on his door anyways. Luke opens it, takes one look at him and then gently takes his wrist to tug him to the bed.

They don't talk. Nick sits on the edge of the bed, staring down at his hands, feeling a little gross. Luke puts a hand on his shoulder, slides it down his chest and then nudges him back on the bed. They usually always do the same stuff, just hands or — or pressing close together, nothing that's a really big deal.

They're in the middle of things (Luke's hands in his pants, mostly, and Nick gripping his arm tight enough to hurt) and Nick turns his head just enough that their lips brush together. Luke moves, and Nick can't tell if he moved away from him intentionally or what, so he reaches for Luke's face and turns it toward his again and tries again.

This time Luke stops what he's doing and jerks his face out of Nick's hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothin'," Nick says, defensive.

"Don't — Nick, we're not — "

"I know, fuck you," he says without any venom, the sick feeling coming back. It's not a big deal, he doesn't actually care, kissing your best friend is kind of stupid even if he's giving you a hand job and he fucked up, again, really, not a big deal.

"Hey, Nick. Look at me," Luke says, but Nick shifts away, fixes up his pants.

"I need to go pack," he answers, turning his back as he sits up and gets off the bed. Actually, he just wants to whirl around and kiss Luke and tell him how much of an idiot he is, how much they both are, how everything is messed up but maybe _this_ doesn't have to be — but he fucking can't. Because he's a coward, because Luke would look at him like he does every time he suggested anything: like a fucking child.

"We were almost done!"

Nick stops at that, turns to look at Luke. He looks a little frustrated, but also concerned, like it's his fucking job to look out for Nick's emotional well being.

_Sometimes you're a real asshole_, Nick wants to say.

"I said, I need to go pack," Nick repeats, and Luke holds his gaze, has the gall to look like he's sorry.

"Can we talk about this?" Luke asks, and Nick bristles. As if he doesn't want to talk about this, as if this whole mess had been his idea in the first place.

"What's there to talk about?" He says, tense, curling his fist at his side.

"Us, Nick. Unless you can't really handle that right now, after everything."

The words hurt. It's not the first time, but still, this isn't the fucking time to remind Nick that he's struggling, this isn't the way to talk about any of this, and Nick, for a second, almost tells Luke to go fuck himself.

"I'm…I'm just gonna go," he says in one breath. He's tired and worn and they have to leave as soon as possible and Nick can't afford to think about everything that's gone wrong more than he already does.

"Alright. I'm sorry, man. I just don't think the time is right for us to — "

"It's fine," Nick snaps. There's a hundred other things he wants to say, like how he's always doing thinks Luke's way, like how Luke keeps treating him like he's broken and _lesser_ and not capable like he is. They're different, that's for sure, but that doesn't mean Nick should feel like shit for it, it doesn't mean Nick can't handle anything.

Instead he turns away and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. There's an added weight in his stomach, one he didn't want or need, one that, if he's honest, started years ago, when Luke first convinced him something was a good idea and he followed behind without thinking for himself.

He feels like shit. He lost his mom and his uncle and he doesn't know who to go to, who to turn to anymore, and his best friend tries but never really gets it right, and Nick knows the way Luke talks about him when he thinks he's not around.

Nick obstinately never thinks about kissing Luke again. He doesn't wonder what it would feel like, doesn't wonder how different things could be, because those are the thoughts that drag you down, and Nick is already sinking.


End file.
